


Rookie gig

by Superstition_hockey



Series: Rookies [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Coach Luc, DILF Luc Chantal, Ethics of the chocolate industry, Gen, How to hang loose, Skateboarding, There is no ethical consumption etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26464636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superstition_hockey/pseuds/Superstition_hockey
Summary: He’s lying there at the bottom of the ramp, head kinda ringing, when he sees a big hand reaching out to him, and a shadow looming above him.“Are you dead?”  The girl asks from somewhere outside his line of site.Unfairly-hot-dad just snorts and wiggles his hand above him. “Need some help, kid?”
Relationships: Luc Chantal/Oliver Jackson
Series: Rookies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923892
Comments: 221
Kudos: 264





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a skateboarder. Apologies for any and all skateboarding related inaccuracies. I might add a few more loosely connected chapters to this in the future, but it started as standalone ficlet in this series.

There’s a little girl at the skatepark. It’s 11 a.m. on a Tuesday in September -- most kids are at school, and she’s too little to be like… playing hookie on her own or whatever. Anyway, she’s with her dad. Or some guy Nick assumes is her dad. He’s in dark gray joggers, a hoodie, Adidas running shoes, and a Nordiques ballcap. The girl has her hair in two little braids coming out from under her pink and teal helmet, kneepads and elbow pads and all that kinda gear on, all very responsible. There’s no one else here, because, again, 11 a.m. on a Tuesday on a cold, gloomy day in late September. Canada continues to be the fucking worst. 

Nick’s just fucking around, half-heartedly grinding a rail on the street side of the course every once in a while, but mostly just standing around, doing kick flips, waiting for Kai and Tims to show up, and trying to not check his phone every other second or care that Calie keeps posting pics with Bronx all over the internet even though she only broke up with Nick like three weeks ago and it’s like, such fucking bullshit. 

Anyway. The girl goes over the ramp edge. Nick looks up and watches her. She doesn’t hesitate, like lots of little kids do, but she still wipes the fuck out. The dad watches. He doesn’t come running up in a panic, which is also good. He just shouts over, “C’est bon, bebe-Bells?”

“Ouais,” he hears the kid grumble as she gets to her feet, shaking out her hands and grabbing her board. Her face is all pinched and determined and she’s going straight up to the ramp again. 

The guy’s phone rings and he answers, even though he kinda looks pissed to be interrupted. She hits the ramp again. The dad’s wandering around while he’s talking, but every time he hears her put her wheels down he turns around and watches. She’s dropping in fine but she's trying to ollie on the other side. Around the fifth wipe out, Nick pushes himself off the bench and heads over to the ramp. 

“Hey, kid.”

The little girl pauses. She glares at him suspiciously. 

“You’re putting your left foot too far back.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers in parks.”

“Uh, yeah,” Nick says, pushing his toque back from where it’s sliding down a little. “That’s, like, a pretty good rule, you should definitely keep that in mind. But also you’ll fall less if you get your left foot right over the truck. We can wait until your dad gets back, if that’s better, or whatever.” 

She sighs, like he’s really asking a lot here. It’s pretty hilarious. “Okay.” She looks at her dad, looks at the ramp, and then back at him, and asks, “Parles-tu français?”

“Uh, like, barely, bruh,” he says back in English. 

She rolls her eyes. Like, full out, rolls her eyes at him. “C’est Quebec pas Montreal.”

“Hey, look, kid, this is a judgement-free zone, okay. No judgement at the skatepark.”

She narrows her eyes at him. 

“Hey, Bells,” he hears a voice behind him, and realizes the dad is back. “Made a friend?”

“He says my left foot’s wrong.”

“Yeah?” The guy finally looks at Nick, instead of looking at his kid, and like. It’s unfair. He is unfairly hot. Nick’s always kinda had a thing for older guys. Like sure, Calie was hot, and Nick was into that too, but like. This dude’s all like … rugged? His dark hair’s curling over his ears underneath his cap, and his stubble’s all salt-and-pepper, and his eyes are crinkled around the corners, and he’s got these fucking eyelashes, and ...unffff.

“Um……” Nick says. “Hi.”

“Hi,” the guy says, eyebrows kinda lifting. Nick can feel himself blushing. Holy shit. “So her left foot?” the dad says after a long, awkward pause. “Can you show us what you mean?”

“Uh. Yeah. Left foot. Sure. Let me just.” Nick shakes his head. “Right. So like. Uh. Watch me? And I’ll like… yeah.” He drops his board on the coping. “So just, like -- well, actually, watch my right leg, because I’m goofy-footed and she’s not. But, like, watch when I get to the other side -- I’ll do one the right way and pay attention to where on the board I keep my feet, and then I’ll do one the way you’re doing, so you can see how it makes you land different.” 

He demonstrates the proper technique the first time, then jogs back up to the top of the ramp. “See where I put my foot that time?” 

The dad’s squatting down and he and the girl both looked like they had been watching carefully. They both nod, and Nick lingers at the top a second time, trying to remind his body of the _wrong_ way to move his legs. It’s been so long since he trained the bad habit out of his body he’s not sure if he can turn off the automatic muscle memory. He overthinks it, of course, manages to get his left foot in the wrong position but. Well, he’d planned to control fall-slide, and instead he just totally eats it. 

He’s lying there at the bottom of the ramp, head kinda ringing, when he sees a big hand reaching out to him, and a shadow looming above him. 

“Are you dead?” the girl asks from somewhere outside his line of sight. 

Unfairly-hot-dad just snorts and wiggles his hand above him. “Need some help, kid?”

“Not a kid,” Nick grumbles, and takes his hand, letting the guy pull him up to his feet. Nick rubs his chin, where it’s aching from where he knocked against the boards. Unfairly-hot-dad’s hand is warm and huge. “Not a kid,” Nick repeats, “totally legal. Legal adult. Of legal age for all possible activities that…”

Unfairly-hot-dad lets go of his hand. It’s tragic. “Kid,” he says, tone amused, “I think you might have rung your bell pretty hard. You want to go sit down for a bit?” 

Nick’s already humiliated himself; there doesn’t seem any reason to be dignified about it now. Dude is the hottest person Nick’s ever seen in real life ever. “I don’t know. I’m pretty injured. Maybe you should pick me up and carry me.” 

The guy laughs. Just full out laughs. “Kid,” he says, “go sit the fuck down.” 

Nick limps off to sit with his rejection. Unfairly-hot-dad takes his daughter back up the ramp. Nick shamelessly listens to him talk her through her footing. He must be some kind of like… personal trainer or something, because, apart from being insanely fit, he’s got a really good kinesiology understanding. He takes Nick’s demonstration and talks the kid through it, explaining some kind of complicated physics shit about balance and weight distribution and fulcrums and whatever. They practice some visualizations. He’s _really_ good at explaining shit like that to her. He’s a really good dad. Nick feels kinda jealous that like… there are people out there in the world who have dads who take them to skateparks and help them get better and don’t just like…. Tell them they’re a loser or whatever. 

Nick checks his phone about five thousand times, but his friends got distracted at the dep, picking up drinks and snacks. Assholes. Nick tells them to bring him a Dr. Pepper and some Twizzlers. 

When he looks up, Unfairly-hot-dad is sitting down next to him. He leans back against the picnic table, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, and watches his daughter. 

To try to distract himself from like… trying to look and see if he can see sweatpants dick, Nick asks the first thing that pops into his head, which turns out to be, “So, like, isn’t it supposed to be school time, right now?” He blushes. “Not to, like, question your parenting or anything.” 

The guy shrugs. “We’re having a sick day.” 

Um, okay, well, she definitely doesn't look sick, but whatever. It’s this dude’s kid and not any of Nick’s business. 

The guy watches his daughter and then says, “Every kid’s different you know? Like, I got… more than a couple of them, and it always surprises me, how different they all are. But like. This one. She’s just… she just cares too fucking much, you know? It’s a good thing, don’t get me wrong, but I worry about her head sometimes.”

Nick doesn't know what to say to that, but he makes a noise like he’s listening, so that the guy will keep talking.

“Not just about her homework and shit, but like even that, I mean, I did not know that nine year olds even had enough going on in school to warrant color-coded notes, but apparently she does. But like. The world. She notices every time something’s fucked up in the world, and she takes it personally, you know? Like how dare the world not always be kind.” 

“That’s hard.” Nick winces in sympathy for her. 

“Last night she found that like some huge percentage of the chocolate in the world is made by slave labor. She took it… hard. Just, really hard. It was kind of a long night. She was inconsolable, you know? Just totally fucking crushed, we had no idea what to do, like how do you even...” He cuts himself off, goes back to watching her wipe out another time on the ramp.

“She was a little better that time,” Nick says, “she’s getting it.” 

“Yeah,” he says, and then, louder, “Good job, Bells, run through your timing a few times in your head before you drop this next time, okay?” 

She gives him a thumbs up and runs back up the ramp. 

Nick asks, “What do you even like… do with that as a parent?” He knows what his parents would do, but he’s 100% sure that’s not what this guy did. 

The guy shrugs. “I’ve got no fucking clue what you’re _supposed to do_ , but after she stopped sobbing hysterically, we talked about like… things we can commit to doing personally, and separating that from stuff, you know, what we can’t do anything about and not letting that eat at us. We looked up ethical chocolate companies. We called her mom. We watched Moana. She made a vision board. And this morning I made pancakes and called her out of school.” He sighs. “She’s so serious, I just… She’s got absolutely zero fucking chill, you know? And that’s great, but it’s hard. I worry about her.”

He takes his phone out, thumbs through the photos, and holds one up to Nick. Nick looks at the collage-work vision board. “Is that dude being guillotined?”

He laughs. “That’s the CEO of Nestle. And yes. Apparently he’s going to be first against the wall in her revolution. I’m getting pretty good at the ‘murder is not an acceptable form of conflict resolution’ talks.” He glances at the ramp and watches intently. Nick watches her land it this time, and the guy lets out a whoop and starts clapping. The girl’s smile is huge and she sprints back up to do it again. 

“So, like, her mom’s like... not with you?” Nick says, because he also has zero fucking chill. 

Nick watches surprise flicker through the guy’s eyes, as he responds, “Not a hockey fan, then?”

“Uh, no,” Nick scoffs, “Every hockey player I knew in school was such a dick, like there was this -- oh. Shit.”

Luc Chantal laughs softly. “There it is.” 

“Oh shit. Oh shit.” He buries his face in the sleeves of his hoodie. Oh god, maybe lightning will just like….randomly strike and put him out of his misery. Or the ground will just swallow him up. 

Nick feels the guy’s, Chantal’s, _Luc Chantal’s_ hand rest on his back. “Kid. It’s okay.”

“I am such an idiot.”

“Every person in this city is not obliged to immediately recognize me. I’m just sort of used to it, assumed you already had.” 

“Oh god,” Nick mumbles, and then, “Don’t you have an equally gigantic husband who can probably crush me like a grape?” 

“He’s a pretty good guy, he doesn’t generally go around beating up teenagers, but thanks for saying ‘equally huge’. I appreciate it.” 

Nick peeks up from his hands. “Does that mean you guys, like, might be looking for a third?”

Chantal shakes his head, smiling. “Kid. I am not going to fuck you. Neither is Jacks. Don’t take it personally, you’re cute, you’re just way too young.”

“I’m 19, not like, some fucking high schooler.” 

“Congratulations, you’re still twenty years too young for me.” 

“I mean, like, thanks for not being a creepo, I guess,” Nick says, “but like, also...” He shrugs hopelessly. 

“Hey, you miss 100% of the shots you don't take, or whatever. Nothing wrong with asking. I’m just saying no.” 

“Papa?” Nick’s mortification is apparently not over, because of course there’s a tiny nine year old, with pigtails and murderous vision-boards there to witness it.

“What’s up, baby-Bells?” 

“I’m hungry.” 

Luc Chantal stands and stretches, popping his back. “That’s life with kids,” he tells Nick, “someone’s always hungry. You want to come with us to lunch?”

“I’m supposed to be meeting my buddies.” Nick offers him an out, even though he’s pretty sure they got sidetracked. He should probably go find them somewhere. 

“Suit yourself, but it doesn't look like they’re in a rush to get here. Happy to drop you back off here or anywhere else, after.”

Nick’s stomach, a traitor, takes that exact moment to grumble, loudly. “Errrm, where are you guys going?”

“Well, there’s a nine year old involved, so probably pizza.” 

Nick really loves pizza. “It’s just like.. I mean, I already made it awkward and stuff so.”

“Nah,” Chantal says. "If it makes you feel any better, the first time I met Travis Pastrana, I definitely shot my shot."

Nick follows him to their truck. "Did he say yes?"

Chantal scoffs,"Ben là, of course not."

Nick thinks about it. "Dude, he's, like, ancient."

Chantal rolls his eyes. He looks just like his daughter. "It was a while ago."

"Papa, who's Travis Pastrana?"

"He's a stunt performer who used to do motocross and X-games type stuff."

"Like my cousin Lipe?"

"Something like that, more like Uncle Dusty's friend, Jessie."

"Are we going to Pizza Hut?"

"No, we're going to Sergio's. Buckle up." 

She leans forward from the back seat and taps Nick on his arm. "I’m Bells. What's your name?" 

"Nick." He shakes her hand when she holds it out. 

When he turns back around, Luc Chantals smiling face. "Nice to meet you, Nick. You can call me Chants."

"Nick, are you going to be our new rookie, since Vinny moved? Is that why you're coming to pizza?"

"Your new rookie? Sounds like a good gig. What are the job requirements."

Bells counts them off on her fingers. "Papa cooks salmon and lectures you about protein and teamwork and communication and tells you everyone needs to work on their skating even if they think they don't, and that he's really proud of you." 

Wait, that’s a possibility? That sounds like a fucking dream. "Uh, yeah, I'm down. Sign me up." Nick jokes.

"Fucking crisse," Chants mutters and then, "pizza first."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Bells is saying in English, “what’s your training schedule? How many times a week do you do yoga for injury prevention? Here, write down all your passwords to your social media accounts.”

Jacks lets himself in through the garage-adjacent mudroom, and sets the mail down on the kitchen counter. He can hear Bells talking in the living room, the low drone of sports commentary on the TV in the background. 

“So,” Bells is saying in English, “what’s your training schedule? How many times a week do you do yoga for injury prevention? Here, write down all your passwords to your social media accounts.”

An unfamiliar voice, a young man with an American accent, says, “Ummm, what? I just skate, like, whenever, man. I don’t do yoga. No, you can’t have my passwords, what the fu-- frick.”

Jacks steps over so he can see into the living room. Bells is sitting with her back towards him, on the carpet. They’ve got a bunch of cut-up magazines, glitter pens, and construction paper spread out on the floor. Ballou is chewing on his kong toy next to her. A…. man? Youth? Some lanky kid Jacks has never seen before, with shoulder-length brown hair underneath a toque, torn up jeans, and an Acid Bath t-shirt is cutting something out of a magazine with safety scissors, sitting criss-cross applesauce across from his daughter. Luc is lying on his back on the couch, softly snoring with Mavs asleep for his nap on his chest. 

“How am I supposed to manage your media presence if I can’t access your accounts?”

The kid blushes. “Girls message me and stuff on there. It’s not stuff little kids should see.”

“Blech.” Bells makes a face. “I’m not going to look in your DMs, gross. As your manager, your social media presence needs work.” She points to the Spitfire label the kid is pasting onto the construction paper with a glue-stick at the moment. “How are you going to get a sponsorship if you don’t show companies that you have a marketable presence and substantial online following? We need to work on your street-skating videos, with a consistent posting schedule and better editing.”

“Hey, Bells,” Jacks says quietly, so as not to wake up Luc, and enters the room. The kid looks up and goes beet red. 

Bells twists around and stares up at him, grinning. “Hi, Daddy! This is Nick, he’s my new rookie. Can I keep him? Papa says I have to ask you first.”

“Rookies are people, not puppies,” Jacks chides her, and steps over to greet the kid. 

Nick stands up, shedding little bits of construction paper and glitter and holds out his hand, blushing even more. “Uh. Hi. I’m Nick.”

From the couch, Luc grumbles, “Rookies are a lot of responsibility, Bells.” He yawns and shifts Mavs off him, scrubbing a hand over his face and grinning at Jacks. “Hey, mon chum, how was your meeting? I found us a babysitter.” 

Nick waves halfheartedly. “I like… don’t speak French, or have any certifications, but I promise I’m not a pedo, I won’t smoke pot around your kids, and I know CPR.” 

“That’s quite a resume,” Jacks replies. “Have you ever baby-sat before?”

“I’m not a baby,” Bells interrupts, “I’m his manager.”

“Not like… as a job,” Nick continues, “but I used to watch my little sister before my parents kicked me out.”

“Why did your parents kick you out?” Jack asks. 

“Because they’re dickbags,” Bells answers, firmly, over top of whatever Nick was going to say. 

“I think that’s a bad word you’re not supposed to say,” Nick tells her, “do you guys have a swear jar?”

Bells rolls her eyes. “It’s not a real swear word. Bad words are only in French. They don’t count in English.”

Nick shrugs. “Okay, well, then, because they’re dickbags.” 

Jacks sighs. “Bells have you shown Nick the goats?”

“Not yet.”

“Why don’t you go do that? Here, take Mavs with you.” 

Bells tugs Mavs off Luc’s lap and shoves him into Nick’s arm, then grabs the kid’s hand. “Come on,” she says, “that means they’re going to grown-up talk about it, which means they’re going to say yes. You can see the chickens too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to dangercupcake for fixing my commas, as always. Don't post to Goodreads or any other sites.


End file.
